


Table for Glasses

by PRAUS (lithugraph)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, One-Sided Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), World War I, crippled Austria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithugraph/pseuds/PRAUS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"1920. Vienna. The last time Austria sees her is in the summer." The Great War is over. The treaties have been signed. And Austria has nothing left to give.<br/>Aus/Hun, Pru/Aus. Oneshot (though I might continue it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table for Glasses

Vienna  
August, 1920

The last time Austria sees her is in the summer. She has come to collect the last of her belongings. What little there is left. It would have been more prudent to have sent for them, Austria thinks, with justifiable bitterness. But perhaps she wishes only to ensure their safe return. (The last time she tried to leave, he fed her books to the fireplace). This time, however, it seems it's for good. Both of their pens have been pressed to treaties. They are no longer an empire but two separate states. (His bed has been empty for over a year. He likes to think he's gotten used to it.) 

Austria, for his part, has spent the better part of the past two years closeted in his music room, his curtains drawn to any intruding light. He is no longer an empire. Can barely fathom what that means. It has been too long for him to remember what being on his own feels like. Blame is easy to dole out -- and Austria finds himself doing so all too often in the quiet, brooding moments when music fails to suffice. He blames and makes excuses.

Days pass. The list of names grows shorter. And Austria finally faces the ugly truth: there is no one left to blame but himself. Germany bears the burden of responsibility, though Austria knows it was his own brashness that brought them to this. That is, perhaps, what makes it hurt all the more. He and Germany have not spoken since.

A knock on the door stirs him from his thoughts. He is about to return to his brooding when a second knock follows, and Austria remembers he no longer has servants. He rises to answer. 

He is halfway down the stairs when his front door opens. 

A travel worn Hungary stands just beyond the threshold, two leather suitcases by her feet. She tucks a key into a bag dangling from her wrist. She has not yet noticed him and gives a tiny start when she finally looks up.

"I thought..." she begins but then shakes her head. "...You received my note, then?"

"Yes."

Austria starts to descend the staircase, to greet her properly, but she has already entered, green eyes giving everything a swift appraisal. It is obvious from the motes floating in the air, the way her nose twitches as if to sneeze, no one has cleaned this house since before she left. There are holes here and there -- spaces on the walls where a painting hung, faint indentations on the rugs where a table stood. He has had to sell some things, she guesses. Austria clears his throat, as if in affirmation.

Her attention snaps back to him. "And where are my things?"

"This way." Austria gestures upstairs.

She sighs, grabs her luggage, and mounts the stairs, the hem of her skirt tracing little whorls in the dust covering them. As she approaches him, she notices his skin is no longer the smooth, powdered porcelain it used to be, but now resembles something akin to candle wax. He makes a motion to help her with the cases, but her grip on the handle tightens as she hoists them up higher.

She reaches the top before he does. He seems to be having some difficulty with his legs. He pats his brow with a handkerchief, trying not to let on how much the climb has winded him. Hungary almost feels sorry. Almost.

He leads her to her old room. She is hardly surprised the bed is gone, though she would have thought he'd keep it for visitors. A few pieces of furniture are scattered about the room, much like downstairs. A chair here, a table there. Things he's not sure if he should keep yet or sell. None of them are hers. All she cares about is the wardrobe.

As she goes over to it, she's vaguely aware he follows her. She wishes he had the decency to allow her some privacy. Not like she's going to steal anything....

Austria watches her, standing before the wardrobe. The dress she wears is modest compared to some of the emerging fashion he's seen. She has not yet abandoned decency in favor of modern convention. (He still likes to think the divorce was not her idea, not completely, but rather something foisted upon them both). His hands remind him how much he misses the curve of her waist. He clasps them in front of him to keep from reaching out, not realizing how close he's gotten.

She turns, gives a start of surprise at seeing him so near. She quickly recovers with a haughty sniff.

"Is this all?" The wardrobe is bare, save for some dresses and shoes, a fur muff from when they used to go sleigh riding in the winter...a mahogany box in the back....

She pushes aside what little remains and takes out the box. A trembling hand lifts the lid, unsure if she wants to know what, if anything, he's left her.

But it is still there. Everything. The diamonds, the pearls, the emeralds. Her fingers ghost over the cut stone. Intricate detail.

She looks up suddenly, a question knitting her brow.

His eyes sweep to the floor. Hers, the empty room.

If things really are just as bad for him....

But Austria gives a near imperceptible shake of his head. "Yours," he whispers.

Hungary shuts the box, the snap of the lid seeming to echo all the more loudly through the empty house. And perhaps it is this sound that makes Austria flinch....

She holds the box to her chest. Her brow trembles as her lips twist. Her emotions are overcoming her, despite her best efforts. She turns away, brushing a hand against her cheek. Because she knows. Knows the contents of that wood box are worth more than all the tables and dresses, paintings and chairs, whatever else he's had to sell. 

She cleans out the wardrobe in a haste, throwing the dresses unceremoniously into one of the leather cases. She clears off her toiletry table, though there really isn't much left. Still, the perfume bottles are crystal and may fetch a decent price....

She carries both cases downstairs with her jewelry box tucked under one arm, managing to negotiate the stairs easily enough. She will not allow any more help from him. 

Austria leans heavily on the bannister, his face flushed and sweaty as he descends the final step with a relieved breath.

Hungary finds herself fighting against something stuck in her throat. Without a word, she turns to go.

"I-if you wish," Austria says, "you may have the crystal and silverware. Also, the dinnerware. I feel I -- w-well, I shan't have need for it. Not anymore."

She pauses, considering him a moment. The fact that he is willing to part with the plates and stemware speaks volumes. It marks the end. It means no more...no more fancy dinner parties. No more impressing heads of state to curry favors. No more monarchy or aristocracy to wine and dine. No more countries sharing his home. Austria truly is alone, for perhaps the first time in his life. Hungary realizes the thing stuck in her throat is worry -- for both their sakes. 

A look flits across her face, one that is at once tremulous and pitying. And Austria has seen it.

"Don't." A quiet warning. A reminder of the authority he once held. "I do not deserve your sympathy."

Hungary clears her throat. He's right, she thinks, and in moments her face is an inscrutable mask. (She's learned his habits so well).

Hungary heads to the dining room, and they silently begin packing away whatever will fit in her suitcases.

The cases are considerably heavier now, but she stubbornly waves off any help from him as they make their way to the waiting car outside. Hungary hands the luggage to the driver to sort out.

Austria opens the door for her, offering her his hand to help her in. An odd look passes over her face, but she accepts, letting go the moment she's inside.

Austria shuts the door, hand resting a moment on the space left by the opened window. He would have asked her to stay for tea but knew she would refuse. Still, the tiniest (selfish) bit of him is regretting that now. He starts to leave as the driver settles himself at the wheel.

A hand covers his, giving him pause.

Austria turns, the momentary shock evident on his face. Hungary suppresses a smile.

Neither speaks.

The touch is at once too much and not enough, Austria thinks. If she keeps her hand there, he might be tempted enough to pull her through the opened window and entwine his fingers around her soft brown locks, drawing her lips to his....

The fantasy is gone as quickly as it came. 

The engine growls to life, and Austria watches as the car takes her away.

.

Prussia visits later that week, unannounced, as is his custom. They are old rivals and even older friends. More importantly, they are both old empires. And, Austria concedes, it feels nice to share the house with someone who knows what that means, if only for a few days. 

Prussia has enough presence of mind not to comment on the current state of Austria's house; Austria has enough presence of mind to play the gracious host (though all it amounts to anymore is sharing a bottle of wine in the parlor).

As Prussia's blood begins to warm, playful banter gives way to the airing of grievances. This time it's the economy. Prussia fumes over the declining currency, the reparations to be paid. Austria lets him, offering an occasional nod as he quietly sips his wine. 

He tries not to think about the worsening pain in his legs.  
.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Treaty of Trianon: signed by the Allies and the Kingdom of Hungary in June 1920 to formally end WW1. It regulated the status of an independent Hungarian state and defined Hungary's borders. The treaty is still a much-maligned and debated issue today. Nearly one-third of ethnic Hungarians were outside of Hungary's new borders and thus were under foreign rule. The humiliation Hungarians felt regarding the treaty influenced most of the nation's inter-war politics, much the same way the Treaty of Versailles influenced Germany.
> 
> Hungarian Revolution of 1848 (not directly mentioned, but alluded to when Austria burnt Hungary's books): There's a lot more that went into this, but essentially the Hungarian people wanted independence and Austria was all like: "Pfft! Ain't happenin'!" After the Hungarian War for Independence, every aspect of Hungarian life was under close government control. German became the official language of public administration. So....yeah. According to head canon, Austria and Hungary's marriage wasn't ideal at this point. They eventually compromised, but....yeah....the damage was done.
> 
> Spa Conference: held in Spa, Belgium July 5-16 1920. The first post-war conference to include representatives from Germany. It mainly discussed the disarmament of Germany and the war reparations laid out in the Treaty of Versailles. 
> 
> War reparations/economy/hyperinflation: A whole slew of economic shit happened which led to hyperinflation and Germany kept defaulting on its payments which led to the French occupying the Ruhr region....buuut that's a whole other fic just waiting to happen. However, Austria on the other hand, was in such a shit state immediately after the war that they wound up not having to pay reparations. Same went for Hungary. According to head canon, Austria's post-war state is what led to his canonical time spent in a wheel chair (and why his legs are having problems in this fic).
> 
> The title "Table for Glasses" is a song by Jimmy Eat World. Listen to it. Like, now.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! (I hope you didn't cry too much).


End file.
